“No, Bell.” She reached up, touching his shoulder tentatively, then stroked across his bicep with more confidence. Your hands on me? Anytime, darlin’. “He didn’t get in my space.” With a giggle, she added, “He’d throw things from the top bunk, or the passenger seat. Holler at me to ‘wake the fuck up, bitch,’ which is his way of being gentle.” She grinned. “We grew up together.”
“Sounds like there’s a story in there.” Covering her hand with his, he gave a gentle squeeze. “Let’s head inside. Stories are always better over beer, and that’s something I’ve got plenty of. Come on, darlin’.” He stood and tugged on her hand. “Get your shoes on. Let’s head inside.”
***
It took a while, but eventually she relaxed enough to talk to him about what happened. He had underestimated two things: One, her tolerance for alcohol, because, by the time she finished reciting events and tried to walk out the door and back to the bunk of her semi, she was staggering. Two, the unplumbed depths in the well of anger waiting inside him. After carrying her to his bed and arranging her sleeping body, head to the pillows, comforter drawn across her hips as her remembered preference, he walked back to the big room at the back of his house and picked up the bottle of whiskey.
Lifting it to his lips, he sucked in one welcome mouthful of sting, but stopped there. He had too much work to do to get plastered. Stretching out one hand, palm down, he studied it, finding that with everything she’d handed him tonight, he could still hold firm, unshaking. He was that far beyond rage. The boil in his blood was constant. Digging his phone from his hip pocket, he looked at the missed calls, seeing Po’Boy had not redialed, but there were four calls and a matching number of texts from Wrench.
Fucktard.
Swipe, delete.
Phone to his ear he waited, ready to cut his brother off if he answered in a mood. A mellow Po’Boy came on the line instead, startling him. “Bruh, sup, my man?”
What the fuck? “Brother, you rang?”
“I did?” A pause then a rough giggle. “Fuck, I’m baked. Thought you called me.”
“I did, but only because you dialed first. You remember what you needed?” Twisted rolled his eyes, thinking, ess-ess-dee-dee.
“Imma ‘member it tomorrah. A’ighty?” A sigh, then a self-pitying grunt. “Been gone a long time, brotha.” Another grunt. “Brands said you’d do this shit. Pussy gets in the way.”
“Pussy ain’t gonna get in the way.” He scoffed, “You know me better, brother. Who the fuck is Brands?”
“Nomad, rollin’ through.” A sigh. “See ya ‘morrah?”
“Yeah, brother. See you tomorrow. Church before food.” There was an open-door party tomorrow night, and before he left to hunt Penny, he’d mandated church before any of the officers got their drink on. There were things to sort out, business needing to be settled where it came to how they were going to deal with Fiddler and his kin, his club. He turned, glancing back at the door leading to where Penny lay sleeping. Means I get tonight with her. “I gotta go. Shiny side.”
“Peace out.”
From personal experience Twisted expected she’d be asleep for a few hours. This meant he had time to activate some connections outside of the area. He texted Wrench back, just a quick, Home safe sleepin. Got back a Good, did the same swipe delete before tapping into his contacts. Lifting the phone to his ear, he waited, then smiled when heard a drawling “Hello,” from a man he knew well. “Retro, man. Got a minute?”
Chapter Twelve
Twisted, two months later
It had been three weeks since he’d effectively moved her into his house. That was after it took him more than a month to convince her that what they had wasn’t going to fall apart. More than a month of her going out in the truck by herself. It was something he didn’t know would bother him until after she’d driven away the first time. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, but more the not-knowing things that ate at him. Was she tired? Hungry? Catching guff from a dockhand? Stuck on the side of the road? Lying in a ditch? The options were endless, and none he could come up with were good ones.
The grin she wore the next time he saw her should have tipped him to the fact he was acting like a crazy person. But, it wasn’t until she showed him the more than 300 texts he’d sent her in five days that it sunk in. His habit of deleting things immediately after sending or reading them had masked the fact that he was obsessively checking in on her. At least from him. Not from her, having to deal with the nearly constant ding or vibration that told her he was asking another question.
Did you eat?
Where ya at?
How’s it goin?
You good?
Where ya goin?
Is it goin’ good?
When he stumbled for the words to explain, she covered his mouth with her hand, her fingertips brushing against his lips. “Shhh. It’s okay, Bell. I think it’s sweet.” She ducked her head, avoiding his gaze for a moment. “I haven’t…no one’s ever cared like that.” Her eyes met his and he watched as they darkened. He knew why when her hand moved, cupping his jaw, thumb sweeping across his bottom lip. “I like it.”
“Glad you like it, sweetheart,” he spoke against the pad of her thumb and then opened his lips, taking it into his mouth. Playing with her thumb, he gripped it between his teeth, traced everything he could find with his tongue, sucked on it like a teat. Everything he did pulled a reaction from her. A gasp, her mouth falling open. Eyelids dropping to half-mast, gaze fixed on his lips. A full-bodied shiver rippled through her when he bit down lightly, talking around her thumb, “I’ll keep doing it then.”
“Okay, then.” Her whispered words were gasped rather than spoken, and he smiled, rolling his tongue around her thumb again. “Bell.” At his name in her mouth, he abandoned his torture of her thumb, reaching up to cup the back of her head, bringing her close, waiting until his mouth hovered over hers to say, “Welcome home, Penny.”
“Thanks,” she breathed, and he grinned, sliding a hand down her back, wrapping around her waist and pulling her close.
“Want a proper welcome home?” He didn’t have to wait for her response. The rocking of her head was immediate, and he rewarded her with a brief lip touch, brushing across in a barely-there caress with his mouth.
She groaned, and her disappointment was tangible, puffs of breath against his lips painting her desire on his skin. “Not quite proper,” he whispered, feeling her shiver again. “Want me to try again? Give it another go?” Not trusting him this time, she responded with a hum and he rewarded her again, this a suitable reward, covering her mouth with his, head slanting.
Long minutes passed and her breath was as ragged as his when he pulled back. Forehead pressed to hers, eyes closed, he asked, “Want more?”
“God, yes.”
That led to him kissing her again, which resulted in undressing her, and then him in a rush to find solace inside her.
Chapter Thirteen
Twisted, one week later
Well, that didn’t go exactly as planned. He didn’t have time for anything past the single thought before his head whipped to the side again. Blood sprayed in a fan across the face of the man with a fist in his hair, holding his head up. Twisted watched as the dead man licked his lips, then gathered enough saliva to spit to the side. Points for not hawkin’ in my face.
Probing with his tongue, Twisted found the split in his cheek flooding his mouth with blood. Lemme show you how it’s done. Biding his time, he let the bitter fluid fill his mouth, holding still until the man leaned deep, putting his face right in front of Twisted, getting ready to shout at him again, no doubt. The problem was, the guy was too close. Got close, stayed close, put himself in harm’s way by staying within reach.
Stupid. He should have done things differently. Should have had a soldier holding Twisted from behind. Should have made sure the bonds hadn’t slipped. Should have checked more than the obvious places for weapons. Dead man, he thought, just before he spat a mouthful
of blood into the man’s eyes, knowing the mixture of blood and saliva would burn like a motherfucker.
Twisted rolled, sacrificing his scalp to gain distance while he shoved a hand into his front pocket, coming out with a small pen. With a flick of his wrist, the concealed blade popped into place. He swept his keys from the ground where they were knocked during the initial scuffle, fingers folding around what looked like a cute kitty face keychain, now revealed to be a deadly addition to bare-fisted fighting. Coming up from the ground, he threw himself at the lone man he’d identified as a danger, the only one who hadn’t holstered his weapon while Twisted was kneeling on the ground.
Sweeping right to left, the thin blade bit through the man’s face, striated muscle visible through the hole gaping in its wake. Not sure if that would keep this guy clear, he followed up with a violent punch to the throat, knowing his kitty’s work was done when the guy stopped making sounds. The keys went into his pocket, and in a continuance of the same motion, Twisted stripped the gun from the man’s fingers. He turned, seeing no other weapons yet bared. Flat-footed enemies, he thought, lifting his chin as he stared into Gollum’s eyes.
Shouts and yells rose around them, Twisted’s delayed backup flooding from the woods surrounding the clearing he’d seemed destined to die in today. The men at Gollum’s back countered finally, pulling their weapons. Bullets whistled past with sounds of pain filling the air. Meaty thuds of fists. High, wavering screams. Still the two men stood, locked in a stare.
On his side of the standoff, Twisted fought the urge to draw it out. Make him pay. That was what his blood chanted as it flowed fast through his veins. Make him pay. Shouldn’t have cut her hair. Make him pay. Shouldn’t have taken what she offered, knowing he didn’t have anything to trade. Make him pay. Her tears as she told Twisted what had happened, tears as he held her. Buckets of fucking tears choking her voice, rusting his heart, staining the time Twisted had with her. Make him pay.
“Do it! Fuckin’ do it!” Gollum screamed suddenly, bending at the waist, mouth open, cords in his neck straining. Fists clenched into impotent weapons with no nearby body upon which to impress their hatred, Penny would be forever safe from him. “Fuckin’ do it!”
“Since you asked so nicely.” Twisted wasn’t even aware he spoke aloud until he heard Po’Boy laugh beside him. Sighting down the barrel, grip unfamiliar in his hand, Twisted focused on the still-screaming mouth in the face in front of him. Squeeze. A small, controlled kick but it meant the barrel lifted slightly, blocking his view of the bullet striking true, the body falling in a heap to the ground, white and gray and red splattered in a wide arc behind.
Twisted sighed, an ache beginning to set up camp in his head following the echoing report. He spat again, blood still welling from the gouges to his inner cheek. “Downed?” He and Po’Boy still used their own shorthand. They'd been through enough situations to refine what they’d started years ago, found from much use that a shared vocabulary and straightforward questions worked best to minimize misunderstandings when it mattered most.
“Nada.” A short laugh. “Well, nada for the good guys.” Twisted swept his hair back from his face, catching it in one hand, grimacing as he felt slick blood coating the strands. “Here.” A nudge against his fingers and he glanced over, taking the hair tie from Po’Boy, who was choking with laughter. “You’re always bitchin’ about tangles after riding away from a fight where some fucker put his hands on you. They always go for the hair.” Po’Boy shrugged. “Figured I’d get ahead of it this time.” Twisted shook his head, took care of business and turned back to the field. “Yo, been weeks.”
“What?” Scanning the field again, Twisted saw a couple of pockets of activity yet.
Po’Boy sighed. “I said, it’s been weeks, brother. You gonna come clean about your pussy?” Teeth clenching, Twisted held his silence. “Oh, come on, brother. You think we don’t know about this shit? Bagger’s girl. See? I even know her bloodline.” Twisted threw a hard elbow his way and Po’Boy grunted. “Goddammit, brother. Tell me one thing. One thing, and I’ll leave you and your pussy alone.”
Twisted grunted, shaking his head, intonation different with this utterance of the same question, “What?”
“She suck good?”
With a roar, Twisted was on him, hand under his jaw, gripping tightly. Po’Boy laughed, reaching up with one hand to trail his fingers across Twisted’s face, pulling them back covered in red that he painted underneath each of his own eyes. “You ain’t whupped,” Po’Boy wheezed, a grin still on his face. “You’re mesmerized by pussy. Stupefied by the snatch. Feel ya, brother.” Pushing against Twisted’s hand, he leaned into him. “Oh yeah, I feel ya. But we still gotta talk.”
“Yeah,” Twisted drawled, dropping his hand and stepping back, feeling curious eyes on them. “We gotta talk, but you say anything like that again and you ain’t gonna be able to talk through that mouth.” He shifted, turning to look out at the remaining groups of men. “She doesn’t factor.”
“Fuckin’ lie. I know it, you know it.” Po’Boy stepped up to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. “I’ll give you this once. Free pass, man. Mostly ‘cuz you’re beat all to shit, and I love ya.” They were quiet for a minute. “You’re my brother. I worry.”
“Don’t worry.”
“I worry,” Po’Boy repeated, his voice losing the teasing tone.
Twisted sighed. “I know, but don’t. It’s all good, brother.”
“Home or house?” That distinction was Po’Boy’s way of asking if Penny would be coming between Twisted and the club party later. This entire conversation had turned uncomfortable. Clearly Po’Boy had been watching, had seen how tied up Twisted was in Penny, and was now questioning where Twisted was in his head. Hell, this might even be a final test, but he didn’t give a fuck.
Twisted turned to face him and they locked gazes, the atmosphere surrounding them growing heavy and intense. Twisted decided to open up a tiny peephole for Po’Boy, let him in a bit. Ease his mind. “It’s good, brother. Truly good. Like she’s meant for me. Ours was a chance meeting, so you gotta call it fate. Nice change, she’s different, Po’Boy. A really fuckin’ nice change from anythin’ I’ve ever had, man. She’s my lagniappe, for true. But, I am who I am, brother. I’ll either be there, or I’ll be home.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m Incoherent, core. You know it.”
“That I do,” Po’Boy agreed. “Just wanna see your ugly mug around the house. Good joojoo. Now you tweaked me, ‘n I wanna meet her, big time. Bring her.”
“Not tonight.” He paused, and decided to shift the talk away from Penny, and back to today. “I count eight.” There’d been fourteen of them when they started. Eight still upright wasn’t bad. They never bothered tallying the dead until after everything was settled. They’d learned long ago it was only the living you had to worry about.
A man broke away from one group and even before the gunshot splintered the air, Po’Boy had already counted him out. “Seven.”
“True that.” Footsteps sounded from his other side and even without looking, Twisted knew who it was. “Retro.”
“I’m late, but not that late. You boys don’t have any sense of hospitality. Didn’t save anything for me or mine.” The hippy-looking biker had hair longer than Twisted’s, pulled back into a long braid, tucked inside the back of his cut. Probably tucked inside his belt, too, to keep the wind from stealing it. “You get what you wanted?” That was Retro being cautious, not knowing Po’Boy as well as he did Twisted, not chancing what would have been shared, even between trusted brothers.
“You’re in time, man. Shields started the party early. We’re just catchin’ up now.” Twisted glanced back, seeing nearly forty men fanning out behind them. “You bring a bus? Fucking shit, man. That’s a lotta bodies.”
Retro was president of the Bama Bastards, out of Birmingham, and had been friends with Papaw for as long as Twisted could remember. The man had an easygoing demeanor, but that was intention
ally misleading, because when he set himself against or for something, he went at it with everything inside him. Take no prisoners, giving not an inch from his planned path.
Papaw had leaned on the younger man a lot, mentoring in return, helping guide the Bastards into a place where they were profitable and, while not the dominant club in Alabama, they were well respected. For a variety of reasons.
When Twisted looked around the field again, he knew he was watching one of those reasons in action. Retro had gone all-in on his behalf, with no more than a single request. Some clubs would have turned him down flat, or at best phoned in a response, turning out only a limited number of disposable bodies.
Retro ignored his statement, asking his own questions. “Shields know why they garnered your displeasure?” He held out a thick length of what looked like rope. Woven into one end was a clasp, leather straps wrapped around the other. The material was a rich auburn color with sun-streaked highlights running the length of what Twisted knew was braided human hair.
“Not yet. And they won’t,” Twisted answered, reaching for the get-back whip he knew had been attached to Gollum’s bike until Retro removed it. Penny’s hair in his hands, the length astonishing, even having Wrench’s words to warn him. Chin down, he squeezed his eyes closed, scrubbing across his face with one hand, the other resting on his hip. He felt the weight of the whip as it brushed against his leg. Tangible evidence that everything she’d said, everything he’d heard unknowing of the identity, all of it was true. Mine.
“She’s…hields aren’t in a place to demand they learn anything.” Twisted had been about to declare something that didn’t have a place on this field, didn’t have a place in club business. “They’ve been a thorn for far too long. It was time to cull the flock.” He gestured towards the bodies littering the field behind him, not giving them the courtesy of a glance. “I’ve got a dozen other ops going down.” As if on cue, his burner phone rang, and he bared his teeth. “As of today, Guanyin’s Shield is no more. We burn cuts tonight.”
Neither This Nor That Box Set 1 Page 21
